Sure as Silver
by Martin Baker
Summary: An alternate ending. Sweeney Todd does not kill Nelly Lovett, but is the outcome worse for him, worse for both of them than it would have been otherwise? Sweeney-centric.


Why I ran that fateful night is one on a list of things I'll never know. I don't know how many years have passed, I don't know what they said upon finding the Great Judge Turpin in a pool of his own gore, and I don't know weather Johanna is indeed happy with her Antony. Theirs was a courtship full of feeling, void of reason. Theirs was a joining swift and sudden as the onset of dawn when the moon stands so constant, when the clouds jump as if startled, and the world seems to shift in slow but determined wakefulness.

I'll never forget that boy. Antony saved my life. Antony told me of my dear Johanna. Still, I never imagined my girl would land with one so soft as he. His features so delicate, his hair like hers, his ideals so pure and untainted by the seeping black decay that is London. I hate London. I hate everything about this place from the changing of the seasons to the transformation of friend to foe, sin to salvation, Benjamin Barker to Sweeney Todd. I hate it all, and I am both men. Benjamin and Sweeney war in me, raging over different dreams lost, different dark victories gained, and a difference neither can put into words.

If ever there were griffins, I understand now why they are no more. The eagle, longing to soar like its brethren, disappearing into the great blue sky: the lion, a loner by nature, wanting the dark, the concealment of jungle foliage and the thrill of the hunt: tangled by the maddening merger of fur and feathers would drive any creature to the only plausible remedy, death. Ah, Death! How many times have I sought her kiss in this dismal place? How many times, through stupidity and sheer cowardess have I failed? Pathetic. Here I cleaned out the gutters of London every day, prying from stubborn fingers the one thing none of my customers thought would be taken, their lives.

Here, sitting in my cell, my hand trembles, though the throat before it is willing enough. These are my friends. They glisten. They shimmer in the dark. The cold feel of silver is soothing as it always has been, and yet, not one of my fellow captives trembles in fear at the sight of them. Not one guard attempts to confiscate them while I am awake or steel them while I sleep. You would think such weapons would be the source of great caution and an even greater awareness of their mortality. I do not question it. Why bring attention to their stupidity? Perhaps they think I will never use them, never let loose the wrath that crests and ebbs in me. Perhaps they are madder than I give them credit for.

I am not alone. Near me, a man hops about. He is a rabbit, you see. In his mind, his fur is smoothe and glossy, his ears are long, and his sensitive nose picks up the smells of greenery and young does waiting to find mates. He is happy in his Madness, and I nod to him as he comes up beside me.

"Good day, oh king of rabbits!

"And good day to ye, oh king of barbers," he replies. His Irish broag is musical in the midst of so much muttering and screaming. We are, as much as anyone can be in this place, friends. I will not hurt him with my shiny blades of death, and he will keep from me the foxes and wolves who prowel the forest of his mind.

A baby laughs and berbles nearby. He is late into his fifties, but for all he knows, his life has just begun. A preacher reads his unseen bible to his unseen flock. This place is his church. A captain stands tall and straight at the wheel of his ship. He is young and strong, but all who look at him see an old man close to death. This place is his ship.

I am the only one without a delusion, and even that is questionable. What fool thought induced me to run from Mrs. Lovett's pie shop that night so many years ago? What made me think things would be better if I put some distance between myself and all the horrors in that place? What demon persuaded me to think I had a right to live after killing the only woman I ever loved? I can still hear Nelly calling after me, pleading with her deep brown eyes to stay. I couldn't stay. I knew if I remained another moment, I would kill her. I couldn't kill her, not after all she had done for me, not after almost letting my heart believe its self to be hers. It only took one look at Lucy's face to know for certain that it was her I loved as sure as my raisers were silver.

I ran all night, falling at thee doorstep of bedlam. It isn't such a bad place. Now that Mr. Fog is gone, the staff is taking a genuine interest in its occupants. Right now, two doctors are eyeing me quizzically.

"See how he holds those sticks?" one says to his fellow "as though they are weapons of some sort."

"He was a barber once," explains the older of the two. "the best in all of London. He went a little batty for some unknown reason and now he thinks those sticks are raisers."

"He is always staring at them," a young nurse says from behind them. "What does he see behind those pitch black eyes?"

"Who can say?" the older doctor replies. "There is often no explanation for madness."

"all the other lunitics find some source of happiness in their delusions," the younger doctor says after a pause. "Him, though… Now there's a strange bloke. It seems to be a sort of prison. Why is that?"

"Loss?" The older doctor ventures a guess "guilt? Betrayal, either of himself or by one closest to him."

"His wife comes to visit him every Sunday," the nurse informs her companions. "Poor Nelly. I can't imagine what it is to have a husband locked up in this place."

That woman is passing herself off as my wife? Unthinkable! And why don't I remember these supposed Sunday visits? I want to protest, want to ask for more of an explanation, but the world is swimming now. I am under water, lost in a sea of images.

Lucy in her wedding gown:

Nelly handing me my friends in their case:

Lucy heavily pregnant with Johanna:

Nelly waltzing with me as we hatch out our sinister plan:

Lucy, Johanna and I going for a Sunday strole:

Nelly, Toby and I sitting around the table on Christmas:

Lucy's horrified face as I left for botany Bay:

Nelly's tear-filled eyes pleading with me to stay:

…

…

So many memories tinged with regret, and all of them echo the same haunting sentiment. If I had only seen, really seen things as they were, none of this would have happened. Still, in the end, I know I made the right choice. Running away from Nelly was the only choice, just as sure as these blades in my hand shine a dazzling silver. Silver,

…

shining,

…

glistening in the dark.


End file.
